


For What Ails You

by cassie_black



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Community: serpentinelion, Creature Fic, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Post - Deathly Hallows, Post-Hogwarts, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-24
Updated: 2014-06-24
Packaged: 2018-02-06 02:45:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1841389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassie_black/pseuds/cassie_black
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A bad case of the flu opens up a whole can of worms for Draco</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Serpentinelion's Glompfest over on Livejournal, and was beta'd into shape by the lovely Groolover.

"Your friend is a slave driver."

Draco flounced into the living room and dropped himself down on to the sofa.

Harry moved his feet just time. "I like how she's just _my_ friend when you've had a bad day. You knew what she was like before you went to work for her."

"Evil, you mean?" Draco asked as he tried to work the cricks from his neck.

Harry laughed. A low, warm chuckle that twisted Draco's insides in a decidedly pleasant manner. "Drama queen," he teased, and poked Draco's ribs lightly. "Hermione's not evil, she's just a little… intense."

Draco squirmed away from Harry's touch and scowled a little. It was that or let Harry see just how much the slightest touch affected him, and that was a can of worms he didn't want to open. "Semantics," he muttered. "She's a dictator."

"She just likes being in charge."

Draco opened his mouth to expound further on his theories of Hermione's true nature when Harry's last words presented a rather disturbing mental image to him. His words died on his tongue and he gave a very real shudder.

"You okay?" 

Harry looked at him with something like concern on his face – obviously Draco looked as green as he suddenly felt. However, he just gave himself a shake and nodded. "Fine." As annoying as Harry could be at times, Draco wouldn't wish the mental image of Hermione Granger in full Dominatrix gear on anyone. Except possibly his father. Only, Lucius would probably enjoy it. And there was another mental image that would keep Draco awake at night.

"You know," Harry said slowly. "If you think about it, you and Hermione are actually alike."

"I beg your pardon?" Draco fixed him with his patented Malfoy glare – it was the sort of glare that had your average witch or wizard cowering in an instant or running for cover, but of course, Harry Potter had never been average in his life.

It wasn't entirely without effect though, apparently. Harry shifted in his seat and rubbed at the back of his neck with one hand. "I just meant that you're both really dedicated to your work," he said, and then gave what definitely sounded like a sigh of relief.

It had been many years since Draco had been able to muster any truly negative feelings for Harry. And, sitting on their sofa, in _their_ flat, there was no way he was going to be able to start now. "Sure you did," was all he said, and added a sceptical tone for good measure.

Harry turned back to the flickering images on the TV screen, but Draco could see the way the edge of his mouth curled in a smile that meant he thought he'd got away with it. 

"Ooof!" Harry looked from the TV to where Draco's feet now lay in his lap, heels digging into his thighs. "Comfy?" 

Draco shifted against the arm of the sofa until he was, indeed, comfy. "Very," he replied loftily. Then, with a wriggle of his toes, he added, "Now rub."

Harry laughed and once again Draco felt a wave of warmth sweep over his body. There was an openness about Harry at moments like these, moments that Draco felt truly privileged to witness, moments that crystallised how hopelessly and utterly in love with Harry Potter he was.

Then Harry began to tickle his feet and all thoughts of romance fled Draco's brain. Harry had discovered this particular weakness of his within days of them moving in to the flat – that had been almost three years ago, and he had continued to exploit it ruthlessly ever since.

"Ow! Stop it, Potter. You bastard." Draco wriggled and twisted, but Harry had a firm hold round one of his ankles. 

"Nice try, Draco. But I know how much you– _Ow!_ " Harry's hand stilled instantly and his face went very pale.

Draco frowned in confusion for a moment. He wasn't entirely sure what had brought their brief tussle to an end, but he wasn't exactly disappointed. Then, Harry moved his hand and cupped his groin with it carefully, taking several deep breaths, and it all became very clear. Draco bit his lip and tried his hardest not to grin. "Oops," he offered. "Sorry about that." And he was really; it was just that the expression of utter shock on Harry's face was so amusing.

"You bastard," Harry muttered, stretching himself out carefully. "You did that on purpose."

Draco took a moment to ensure Harry wasn't serious before he tutted loudly. "Now who's being the drama queen?" Then, taking advantage of Harry's distraction, he leant forward and snagged the remote. "I believe it's _my_ turn to choose the channel this evening."

"Isn't it always?" Harry asked, his expression of pain now replaced by one of amusement.

"Don't even try and pretend you don't love it, Potter." Draco scrolled endlessly through the menu in search of something suitable. "My _Sex and the City_ box set was in the wrong order yesterday, and we both know that wasn't me."

An undeniably cute blush coloured Harry's cheeks – not that Draco was of a mind to deny it, to himself at least. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"No, of course you don't," Draco replied, finally settling on an episode of _Real Housewives_. He wriggled his feet again and shot Harry a pointed look. "Rub," he said imperiously.

Harry rolled his eyes and poked out his tongue in reply, but as the strangely orange-looking women on the screen began arguing for the hundredth time, Draco felt the skilful touch of fingers pressing into his tired feet.

***

"Oh, darling. You look terrible."

Draco scowled his very best scowl at the mirror; she was usually very complimentary, and the last thing he needed was a reminder that he looked as bad as he felt. "Kindly keep your opinions to yourself," he snapped. Or rather, tried to snap. It came out as more of a croak, the words burning against his already raw throat. 

Ignoring the mirror's further concerned twittering, Draco lowered his face and splashed it with cold water. The fresh sting helped a little, but the sudden bout of dizziness that followed did not, and he was forced to hold very tightly to the edges of the sink and wait for it to pass.

Finally he dried his face on the nearby hand towel and braved one last look in the mirror. It was not good. His skin had always been pale, but there was an almost deathly pallor to it at the moment – except for the two spots of high colour on his cheeks, a sign of the fever he was undoubtedly running, if the burning of his skin wasn't enough indication. His hair was lank and dull, and under normal circumstances would have Draco grabbing his wand for an emergency Grooming Charm. But right now the act of remaining upright was taxing what little strength he had to maximum – there was no way he had the energy to cast spells.

"You really should be in bed," the mirror said, when Draco finally started paying attention to it again. "Get that nice young man of yours to tuck you in."

Truth be told, Draco would much rather be tucked up in bed _with_ Harry, than _by_ him. But the chances of that happening were about as likely as Draco making it through the remainder of the day without passing out. Because he was at work and bed was definitely not an option, and Harry, whether Draco liked it or not, was most definitely _not_ his.

Draco let out a soft groan and leant forward until his flushed cheek was pressed against the cool glass of the mirror. He ached. Everywhere. And just the bare thought of the mound of reports waiting on his desk for him to go through was enough to make him cry. If only he had the energy.

"Draco?"

The groan he let out this time was a little louder and did nothing to ease the threatening tickle plaguing his throat. 

"Draco, are you in there?"

A gentle rap on the washroom door reminded Draco that this was Hermione he was dealing with, and she was nothing if not persistent – she'd set up camp out there if needs be.

"I'll be out in a minute." Draco reluctantly pulled back from the cool glass, his head now throbbing persistently, and the words scratching at his throat on the way out. Carefully avoiding another glimpse of his reflection – the reminder was bound to make him feel worse – he turned towards the door.

Hermione would doubtless be waiting on the other side with demands for updates on work that Draco just hadn't done yet. That, or bearing another stack of reports for him to go through. Neither option was particularly appealing, and Draco couldn't help but wish he'd listened to Harry that morning when he'd told him to stay home. 

But it was easy for Harry to say that – no one would question him or his motives. But since the day Draco had strode into the Atrium to start work he had been judged by standards far more stringent than any of his colleagues. He knew people were just waiting for him to fail so they could be proved right. So whilst the prospect of a day in bed had been very appealing, he'd fought too hard to get where he was now and wasn't going to give anyone the chance to say he was slacking off.

With a heavy heart, Draco turned towards the door and opened it slowly. 

Hermione Granger had changed very little since Hogwarts. Yes, she'd swapped Gryffindor robes for Ministry ones, and the haircut was a definite improvement, but the hands on her hips and the imperious glare were still the same, as was the effect it had on Draco who, truth be told, had always been a little intimidated by her.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded the instant Draco appeared in the doorway.

Draco really didn't have the energy to play nice today. "It's a washroom, Granger. Surely you don't need me to go into details." Of course, the way his voice cracked as he spoke definitely took the edge off his biting sarcasm.

Hermione rolled her eyes in a way Draco knew she normally reserved for Weasley, and he would have been offended if he wasn't so busy trying to keep down the cough he could feel clawing its way up his chest.

"I mean what are you doing at work; you're clearly not well."

"I'm fine," Draco lied without a hope of being believed. "It's just a bit of a cold."

"Go home, Draco," and Hermione's tone brooked no argument. "You look like… well, shit, frankly."

"Charming," Draco muttered. "I'll have you know—" Draco's sentence remained unfinished though, as the cough chose that moment to escape. He leant forward slightly, one arm cradling the ribs already sore from earlier bouts, and the other across his face as he coughed painfully into the crook of his elbow.

It felt worse than any of the preceding bouts. Draco wasn't sure if that was because he'd tried to suppress it for so long, or if it was just another sign that he was getting worse – either way, each cough felt like someone had taken a very large boot to his torso, and the throbbing in his head increased tenfold as he struggled to gulp in air.

Finally it ended. Draco straightened himself up carefully, trying his hardest not to wince. However dreadful he felt – and he really did – he was painfully aware of Hermione's gaze scrutinising him. Draco wiped surreptitiously at his watery eyes and took a few, discreet deep breaths. "My apologies," he said, his voice raspy at best.

"Go home, Draco," Hermione repeated firmly. "You need potions and rest. You're doing nobody any favours by being here like this. Least of all yourself."

Draco shook his head and then instantly regretted it – it felt like the boot attacking his ribs had moved up to his temple. But before he could protest further, Hermione stepped forward and placed one hand against his forehead. It took every ounce of willpower Draco had _not_ to lean into the cool, soothing touch.

"You're burning up," she said quietly, and there was something about the obvious sympathy in her voice that drained the last of the fight out of Draco's body. "Come on," she added, her hands now on his shoulders, gently steering him. "You can use the Floo in my office; we'll have you home in no time."

Without further protest – because, really, what was the point? – Draco allowed himself to be manoeuvred towards Hermione's door, which was thankfully only a short distance away.

"Harry will be relieved to see you," Hermione commented as she pushed the door open.

Draco turned his head as slowly as he could to look at her. Not willing to risk another coughing attack by speaking, he tried to convey his question anyway.

Hermione smiled softly and held out the bowl of Floo powder for him to take. "You know what a mother hen he is," she said. "He Flooed earlier to see how you were." She gave Draco a gentle push towards the fireplace. "He's worried about you."

As he stepped into the grate, Draco had a fleeting thought that maybe being sick wasn't entirely a bad thing.

***

Harry was waiting on the other side of the Floo when Draco emerged, his expression a mixture of concern and irritation.

"I told you not to go in today," he said by way of greeting.

"Not helpful," Draco muttered, as he gripped on tightly to the side of the fireplace and waited for the dizziness to stop.

"Sorry." Harry was all contrition now. He stepped forward quickly and put a steadying arm around Draco's shoulders. "I was just worried about you."

"I'm fine," Draco said, for what felt like the thousandth time that day. The shiver that ran through his body at that point did little to support his lie.

"Of course you are." The amusement and disbelief were clear in Harry's tone.

"It's just a cold," Draco protested weakly.

"Draco." Harry stood in front of him now, hands firmly on his shoulders – their faces so close that Draco could practically count every one of Harry's eyelashes. "If Hermione let you leave work early—"

"More like _made_ ," Draco muttered mulishly.

"Fine," Harry said. "If Hermione _made_ you leave work early, then you're not fine. So let's stop pretending, yeah?"

Draco recognised easily the determined set of Harry's jaw and made no further protest. Mainly because he knew it would be futile, but also because a very quiet voice at the back of his brain was pointing out that being taken care of by Harry wasn't exactly a bad thing.

He opened his mouth to reply, but instead was wracked with another coughing fit, this one definitely worse than the last. Draco grabbed on to the nearest thing for support, which happened to be Harry's biceps, and leant forward, the top of his head resting against Harry's chest.

It was disgusting. The rattling noises his chest made every time another cough heaved its way out of him would, under normal circumstances, have mortified Draco. The fact that Harry was witness to them only amplified the humiliation.

"Sorry," he choked out, and relinquished his grip on Harry's arms.

"Don't apologise," Harry replied softly, and then settled one of his hands on Draco's back and began to rub. "I don't mind."

The shock of the initial touch caused Draco to still in surprise – or still as much as his cough would allow. But after a few moments he was forced to admit how pleasant it was, that the soothing circles were helping to calm him and make his breathing easier. Plus, it was Harry touching him, which was never a bad thing.

After what seemed like an eternity, the coughing fit came to an end. Draco kept his breathing shallow, not wanting a repeat performance any time soon, and slowly straightened out. His vision was blurry from unshed tears, and he was painfully aware that he had to look terrible – his general vanity was enough to make this a bad thing at the best of times, but that Harry of all people should witness it… But then Draco realised that Harry's hand was still on him, resting lightly in the small of his back, and the look of concern on his friend's face was such that all other concerns fled.

"Let's get you into bed." Harry applied a little pressure to the hand on Draco's back in an effort to get him moving, and Draco knew he'd be replaying those words over in his brain for a long time to come – context be damned.

As there was nothing he wanted more than to climb under his covers and sink down into his mattress – apart from possibly having Harry join him – Draco made no protest. He allowed himself to be guided from their living room in the direction of his bedroom.

"I don't think we've even got any Pepper-Up," Harry said, before adding, "although, maybe you should see a Healer anyway," as he was forced to grip Draco's waist tightly to stop him stumbling. "You really do look awful."

"Thanks," Draco croaked. "I bet you say that to all the boys." As the words left his mouth, Draco mentally kicked himself, then decided he must be delirious to choose this moment over all others to start flirting with his flatmate.

"Only the pretty ones," Harry replied, and his fingers curled just that little bit tighter around Draco's waist, which was just as well because his knees chose that moment to weaken in response to Harry's words.

After a moment of shuffling, they made it through the door into Draco's room, and at the sight of his bed looming so near, Draco felt the last of his fight seep out of him.

"We'll just get you under the covers and then I'll Floo Hermione. She'll know what potions we need." Harry paused then and added, "I'm still not sure we shouldn't call a Healer."

"There's no point," Draco replied croakily as Harry eased him down to sit on the edge of the bed. "Can't take them." And as Harry opened his mouth to argue, he added, "Allergic."

"Allergic?" Harry repeated, his tone sceptical.

Draco gave a slight nod of confirmation as he leant forward to unlace his boots. He stopped halfway, his fingers barely grazing the laces, and made a mental note not to try that again as the room began to spin in an alarming fashion.

Harry crouched on the floor by his feet and batted his hands away. "Let me," he said quietly, and set to work immediately.

It was a testament to how truly rotten Draco felt that he spared only a fleeting thought to the fact he had Harry Potter on his knees – a position Draco's brain had placed him in on numerous occasions. Although, in none of those scenarios had Draco's lungs felt like they were trying to escape the confines of his chest.

"But I've seen you take potions before," Harry argued as he eased the first boot off Draco's foot.

Draco forced his drooping lids open and looked down at Harry's face; he was immensely gratified by the concern he found there.

"Not all potions," he said, then angled his leg to assist Harry with the removal of his other boot. "It's juniper berries," he murmured, losing the fight to keep his eyes open – it was just so much effort.

With his boots removed, Draco had every intention of climbing under the covers fully clothed. He had neither the will nor the inclination to remove them. His fingers were just tugging the duvet – his intent to roll _in_ rather than under – when Harry stopped him.

"You can't sleep like that," he objected.

"Oh, believe me, Harry," Draco replied croakily, "I most certainly can."

But Harry pried his fingers away and smoothed the duvet back down. "Just get into your pyjamas first; you'll be much comfier like that."

Cursing his inability to ever deny Harry anything, Draco let out a disgruntled huff. But his fingers moved to the fastenings on his robes and that seemed to satisfy Harry, who moved away to the nearby chest of drawers.

After some rummaging – and even in his weakened state Draco spared a moment to mourn his once organised clothes – Harry turned back around. Draco's heart skipped a very clichéd beat inside his chest at the sight of his favourite pyjamas in Harry's hands.

To anyone else who asked, Draco Malfoy slept clad in only the finest of silks. Harry Potter, however, knew that deep down Draco liked nothing more than to snuggle up in blue check flannelette. Wild horses would not drag that confession out of Draco, ever, but Harry knew all the same.

Harry took one look at Draco's hands as they fumbled uselessly with his robes and shook his head. The smile on his face, had Draco been inclined to believe his own eyes, could only be described as tender.

"You really are poorly, aren't you?" Harry murmured as he crouched down, once again, between Draco's knees.

Draco's sense of dignity, which would usually have protested vociferously at such treatment, remained surprisingly quiet as Harry unfastened his robes and eased the heavy fabric over Draco's shoulders. It even remained quiet as Harry's deft fingers made short work of the buttons on his shirt and sent that the way of his robes – although the repeated brush of Harry's knuckles against Draco's chest may have been somewhat responsible for his distraction there.

"You're going to have to stand up for this, I'm afraid."

"What?" Draco's eyes widened impossibly as he felt Harry's fingers tug at the waistband of his trousers. 

Harry just looked back at him steadily. "I can't get them off with you sitting down," he said patiently.

"You're not getting them off at all," Draco said, and firmly pushed Harry's hand away.

"You've got underwear on, haven't you?"

"Of course," Draco snapped back, his voice cracking in much the same way that had plagued him during puberty.

"Well then, what's your problem?" Harry sat back on his heels and watched Draco with a mixture of amusement and concern on his face.

Even though his head currently felt like it was stuffed full of cotton wool, Draco was still able to realise what a spectacularly bad idea this was, as he rose gingerly to his feet.

"Here." Harry took hold of Draco's hands and placed them on his shoulder.

Draco gripped on tightly and tried his hardest not to focus on the fact that Harry's face was mere inches, and a thin layer of fabric, away from his cock. Which was easier said than done given that the position they were now in had featured very heavily in some of Draco's favourite fantasies over the last few years.

Fortunately for _his_ dignity and Harry's innocence, Draco's body was far too poorly to fully _appreciate_ the opportunity, and Harry managed to ease the pyjama bottoms on to Draco without embarrassing incident.

"There we are." Harry looked up at Draco with a smile that would certainly have sent his head dizzy were his illness not already taking care of that. "Now let's get you back into bed."

Draco slid between the soft sheets of his bed with a grateful sigh. The coolness of the pillows against his flushed skin was like heaven. Draco's eyelids were drooping shut even as Harry settled the covers around him securely, and the last thing he felt before sleep claimed him was the soothing sensation of Harry's hand stroking his hair.

***

It was dark when Draco next woke.

He gasped into wakefulness from dreams he couldn't remember but knew had not been pleasant, and the sharp intake of breath he took was enough to set his chest rattling again. Draco moved to wrap one arm around his already bruised ribs, but the bed sheets had other ideas. At some point during his restless slumber he had become entangled in them, and was almost like a baby in swaddling. 

Somewhere between coughing harshly, panting for breath, and fighting the good fight against Egyptian cotton, Draco found himself on the floor. He went down with quite a thud – the hard wood floors he'd insisted on might have looked good, but they were not kind to hips or shoulders. But right at that moment Draco didn't care about the bruises he would undoubtedly be sporting the next day; he was too busy trying to keep his lungs inside his chest.

"Draco? Are you all right?"

Harry's voice drifted in from the hallway. Draco coughed in reply.

The bedroom door opened then, a bright shaft of light illuminating the dark of the room. Panting breathlessly on the floor, Draco screwed his eyes shut tight against the harshness of it.

"What the…" Harry practically skidded across the floor before kneeling at Draco's side. "What happened?"

Ordinarily the depth of concern evident in Harry's tone would have been incredibly gratifying, but now that the coughing had stopped, Draco's body was busily reminding him just how sick he was. "Fell," was all he could muster the energy to say.

"Did you hurt yourself?" But Harry didn't wait for an answer – his hands were already skimming their way along Draco's limbs as if checking for breaks. He sat back moments later, apparently satisfied all was well. "Let's get you back under those covers."

The hardness of the floor was beginning to register and Draco thought Harry's suggestion had merit, so he placed his hands down and began to lever himself upwards. It would have been a lot easier if every part of his body hadn't ached like it had just been on the receiving end of an Unforgivable, and even more so if the world hadn't decided to move around him.

Draco had barely got his torso off the ground before he was already wondering if he could just tug the sheets off the bed and stay where he was. He was exhausted and it just seemed like too much effort. _Maybe he could persuade Harry to pass him down a pillow?_

He wasn't sure whether to feel grateful or mortified when Harry decided enough was enough and actually lifted him back onto the bed. His mattress was definitely more comfortable, but still… So he glared as best he could with watery eyes.

Harry just smiled back almost indulgently and began arranging the covers around him. "Don't sulk. You'd have been down there all night if I'd left you to it. Is that what you wanted?"

Draco didn't have an answer to that. Or not one that he wanted to share, anyway. So he turned his cheek against the coolness of his pillow and let out a faint sigh.

"You're burning up still." Draco knew his skin was hot and clammy, but Harry's touch was so gentle that he couldn't help but lean into it slightly. If necessary, he could just blame it on the fever currently raging through his body.

"Too hot," he muttered, and tried, weakly, to kick the duvet from his body.

Harry just smoothed the damp hair back from Draco's forehead. It was a touch so tender, so close to what Draco wanted but knew he would never have, that he could almost have cried. "Stay there," Harry said quietly. "I've got something that might help."

And then he was gone, and Draco lay still in the dimly lit room and waited. He kept his breathing as shallow as possible, tried not to swallow too often, and prayed that Harry had discovered some miracle cure while he'd slept – preferably one that did _not_ contain juniper berries. 

Draco was in that much of a daze that he didn't notice when Harry returned. It was only when the mattress dipped slightly and then a deliciously cold cloth was pressed gently to his forehead that Draco realised he was there.

"That better?" Harry asked as he moved the cloth down over Draco's cheeks.

Draco hadn't the energy to worry about his pride by this stage. "'S nice," he murmured in reply, then opened his eyes and let out a distinct whine when the touch stopped. "Hey."

"I've got some medicine for you," Harry said by way of explanation. He cast a quiet _Lumos_ and a gentle light filled the room, allowing Draco to make out the glass bottle in his hands.

"Allergic," he pointed out, and then eyed the cloth in Harry's other hand hopefully.

"It's all right; it's Muggle." Harry put the cloth down on the bedside table, to a murmur of protest from Draco. "I nipped to the chemist while you were sleeping – the woman there said this should help get your fever down."

Despite his head feeling like it was full of cotton wool, Draco knew Harry was waiting for him to make some protest at the suggestion he take Muggle medicine. And were it not for the fact that he felt like he'd just lost a fight with a particularly aggressive troll, Draco might have been tempted. But as it was, there wasn't anything he wouldn't do right now to feel even just a little bit better. So all he said in reply was, "Okay," and then opened his mouth to take it.

If Harry was surprised by his acquiescence, he didn't comment. Instead, he slid one arm under Draco's shoulders and began to lift him up.

"What are you doing?" Draco demanded, though with the current state of his throat, he sounded about as threatening as a fluffy kitten.

"You need to sit up for this," Harry explained patiently. "Don't want you choking, do we?"

And as he most definitely did _not_ wish to have his ribs take any further abuse, Draco allowed Harry to manhandle him until he was propped – rather comfortably, actually – against the headboard and a mound of pillows.

Considering Harry had done all the work, it was ridiculous how tired Draco felt after just that little effort. He lay back against the pillows and struggled to keep his eyes open as he watched Harry unscrew the bottle and measure just the right amount of medicine into a small plastic cup.

The liquid was red and gloopy and had a distinctly unpleasant smell, and it took all of Draco's self-control for him not to turn away in disgust as Harry held the cup to his lips. 

"I know it's not exactly butterbeer, but it can't taste any worse than some of Snape's potions used to. And at least this one won't make your ears steam."

Not wanting to dwell on the unpleasantness of it any longer, Draco parted his lips and allowed Harry to tip the offending mixture into his mouth. He swallowed as quickly as he could and was pleasantly surprised to find that the taste was neither as bad as it smelt, nor did it linger in the way most potions did. It was infinitely less unpleasant than a Pepper-Up Potion was, _but_ it seemed to lack the immediate results as well. 

"It'll take a while to work," Harry said, as if reading his mind. "Why don't you get some more sleep, and you'll feel a bit better when you wake up."

"Time is it?" Draco asked croakily – going to bed in the middle of the day had completely messed with his body clock.

Harry placed the bottle back on the table and glanced at his watch. "Nearly half nine."

It took a moment or two for the reply to penetrate Draco's brain – Harry's hands were already settling the covers around him when he sat bolt upright. "What?" he demanded, and then was forced to press one hand to his head as it began throbbing madly – clearly sudden movements were _not_ a good idea.

Harry's hands were on his shoulders then, gentle but firm, as they lowered Draco back down into his nest of pillows. "Sleep." It was said quietly, but there was a note of determination behind it that told Draco arguing would be a pointless exercise. "There's nothing that can't wait until you're feeling better."

"'M supposed to meet Pansy and Blaise." It was barely a protest really, because Draco was already shifting into a more comfortable position. "We always have drinks on a Thursday."

"I know." Harry smoothed his hands over the duvet. "I Flooed Pansy earlier and explained."

Draco cracked one eye open in curiosity – though he and Harry had long since overcome their differences, there were still a few areas of tension between him and Draco's friends. "Oh? What did she say?"

Harry's eyes creased at the corners as he smiled. "She wished me luck," he said, reaching out and swiping the cloth once more over Draco's forehead. "Rumour has it you can be a very demanding patient."

Draco opened his mouth to protest but was stopped by two things: the knowledge that Pansy had a point – based on past experience, anyway – and the cough that chose that moment to wrack his body.

Draco leant forward, bent almost double, with one hand pressed firmly against his protesting ribs. His other arm was, once again, pressed over his mouth. "Hurts," he gasped in between bouts, as if the watering eyes and grimace of pain on his face weren't enough to give it away.

"I know," Harry said soothingly, and then his hand was on Draco's back, rubbing slow circles in a way that made him want to arch up into the touch like a petted cat – or it would, if he wasn't currently coughing and snotty and generally quite gross. "I know."

Finished for now, Draco slumped back on the pillows, vaguely conscious of the fact he had trapped Harry's arm behind him. But Harry didn't protest and frankly Draco could barely muster the energy to breathe at that moment, much less move unnecessarily.

"I got you these as well," Harry said, and dropped a box of tissues at the side of Draco. "Figured you might need some."

As Draco had been trying his best not to sniffle and thus disgust Harry further for the last few minutes, he was both mortified and incredibly grateful. But given that Harry had already undressed, coddled him, and carried him like a baby, all in the last twelve hours or so, Draco decided that what dignity he had was long gone.

"Thanks." And Draco reached out to grab a handful of tissues. They felt softer than usual and he rubbed them between his fingers experimentally. "They feel weird," he commented, but raised them to his nose nonetheless.

Harry grinned. "They have some kind of soothing balm in them or something, so they'll be kind to your delicate Malfoy skin."

Draco really wanted to give Harry a jab for that remark, but he was painfully aware that his hand currently held a snotty tissue and there were some things he really wasn't ready to share with anyone, much less the secret object of his affections. So he had to settle for a muttered "Git", but even that lacked any real heat.

Anticipating yet another need, Harry reached over and held the bin up for Draco, just as a yawn cracked his jaw.

"You should get some more sleep," Harry said, returning the bin to its original spot on the floor. "The woman in the chemist said you needed to get plenty of rest."

Draco hummed his agreement – he was currently fighting a losing battle to keep his eyelids open, so he didn't think that would be much of a problem. 

"How _are_ you feeling?" Harry twisted till he was almost sideways on to Draco and let his free hand rest lightly on Draco's stomach.

Had it not been for the fact that Draco was aching and tired and his skin burning up, there would have been potential for a very embarrassing situation to arise. As it was, his stomach muscles tightened instantly the moment Harry's hand touched his skin, and his belly flip-flopped in a not entirely unpleasant way. "Like shit," Draco answered honestly, focusing on Harry's question rather than his actions. 

"Poor baby," Harry replied, which under normal circumstances would have caused Draco to hex him into next week. But Harry also chose that moment to start rubbing his hand in small circles over Draco's stomach, and all thoughts of irritation fled his mind instantly. Plus, a quick glance at Harry's face showed a complete absence of mocking. His expression, if anything, was a mask of concern.

"I thought you were going out tonight?" Draco was clutching desperately at straws. That whole moment was entirely too intimate, too tender for him to be able to cope with, and he had the very real fear that if it continued, he might, in his weakened state, confess certain feelings he had been trying to hide for the best part of four years.

"Who would take care of you if I did?"

_Fuck!_ Harry really needed to stop saying things like that, because flu or not, Draco was on the verge of doing something very stupid. "I can take care of myself."

Harry chuckled then, low and warm, and his hands kept up their pattern over Draco's skin. "Of course you can."

But Draco's eyelids had already drifted shut and he couldn’t muster the energy or inclination to protest. Instead he let his head loll towards Harry's shoulder in what he hoped looked like an accidental fashion, and gave himself up to sleep.

***

When Draco woke up next, dawn had long since broken and daylight was doing its best to stream in around the edges of the curtains.

His hopes that sleep would see off the majority of his illness were swiftly dispelled. His nose was stuffier than ever, his throat still raw, and the constant ache in every part of his body seemed, if anything, to have intensified.

But worse than all of that, he felt _disgusting_.

What he wanted more than anything was to take a shower. The fever had obviously run ragged through the night because he felt hot and sticky and just… _disgusting_.

But despite his desires, just the thought of dragging himself to the bathroom, of getting in the shower and actually washing himself, was exhausting him. 

Draco turned his head to the side, where he knew Harry lay sleeping thanks to the soft snuffling noises he made. The sight of Harry slumbering peacefully on Draco's bed, glasses askew and still fully dressed, caused Draco's heart to swell. Harry had so obviously fallen asleep whilst watching over Draco as he slept and Draco wanted nothing more than to lean over and kiss him into wakefulness – or senseless; whichever occurred first. 

Sadly Draco's common sense reminded him what a very bad idea that would be, so what Draco did instead was simply reach over and gently remove the glasses from Harry's face, then place them carefully on the bedside table. Harry just looked too peaceful; there was no way Draco could wake him up to help him to the bathroom. Besides, the potential for embarrassment in that situation didn't bear thinking about.

So Draco pushed himself up in to a seated position, moving slowly so as not to set his head throbbing again. Then, lowering his feet to the floor, he pushed up off the bed. 

Whilst his legs held out initially, his balance did not. The movement was enough to set the world around him lurching in an alarming fashion, and Draco groped desperately for the wall in order to stay upright. Unfortunately, in his efforts, he ended up knocking the lamp off his bedside table, sending _it_ , and assorted knick-knacks, crashing noisily to the ground.

Draco knew he should be concerned, because it sounded very much like one, if not more, of his belongings had broken, but the world was still spinning a little too fast for his liking and all his energy was directed towards holding on.

"What the… Draco, are you okay?"

Harry was out of bed and at his side in an instant. Under normal circumstances Draco would have been mortified at how easily he fell into Harry's arms, but right now dignity was the least of his concerns.

"Let's get you back into bed," Harry said softly, and such was his relief at feeling the support of the mattress under his body that Draco didn't even object to being treated like an invalid.

Harry tucked the covers securely around Draco's body and then looked at him in concern. "Are you sure you're okay?"

Draco stopped himself from nodding just in time. "I'm fine," he said. "Just got a bit dizzy."

Harry smiled faintly. "You don't say." He knelt down on the floor at the side of the bed and began returning Draco's belongings to their place on the table. A quick _swish_ of his wand and the lamp was good as new.

"I'm sorry." Draco winced at just how weak he sounded.

"You don’t have to apologise," Harry said, getting back to his feet. "But if you need something, just ask. It's what I'm here for."

"I didn't want to wake you."

Harry shrugged. "Well, I'm awake now. What did you want?"

Draco struggled to keep down the blush he could feel threatening to emerge. Asking for help with this had been okay in the abstract, but now that Harry was in front of him, looking all ruffled from sleep, Draco just couldn't bring himself to say it. "Doesn't matter," he said.

Harry perched on the bed at Draco's side and looked at him with a concern that made Draco's stomach swoop. "Come on," he said, and placed one hand on Draco's shoulder. "I don't mind. Tell me."

"A shower," Draco said so quietly. Not quietly enough that Harry didn't hear him, if the blush spreading over his cheeks was anything to go by.

"Oh, right." Harry rubbed at the back of his neck – a blatant give-away of how he was feeling. "Given what just happened, I don't think you're strong enough to manage that right now. Maybe we could try a Cleaning Charm?"

Draco glared just a little. "Don't even think about aiming a _Scourgify_ at me, Harry Potter. Do you have any idea how bad that is for my skin?" The overall threatening effect was lessened somewhat when Draco finished up with a sneeze.

Harry held up his hands in a placating fashion. "It was just a suggestion."

"It's fine," Draco replied. "Just don't breathe near me anytime soon."

"Drama queen," Harry said affectionately.

Draco chose to ignore it, mainly because he was busy trying to fight the rising tickle in his throat and losing.

"I'm going to grab some of that cough syrup for you," Harry said, after watching him struggle. "I'll be back in a sec."

He was gone a lot longer than that, and Draco was beginning to feel irritated because the idea of medicine was very appealing to him right now. But calling for Harry was out of the question with the way his throat hurt, and Draco really didn't have the energy for a Patronus right now, so he just lay back against his pillows and wallowed in his own misery.

Just as Draco's eyelids were drooping again, Harry reappeared. As well as the familiar bottle of medicine, he was also carrying a large plastic bowl rather carefully.

It was all the energy Draco could muster to raise one brow in question.

Harry flushed a little and seemed decidedly nervous. He placed the bowl at the side of the bed and then turned to Draco. "I thought… well, you can't manage the shower, and magic is out of the question, so I thought…"

"You thought what?" Draco's patience was not at its best when he was sick.

"Ithoughticouldspongeyoudown," Harry blurted out, his cheeks now a fiery red.

The words might have come out so fast that they made Draco's head spin, but he still managed to get the gist of them. Especially considering the large bowl of soapy water by his bed. 

"I'm not an invalid," he snapped. Draco was torn between the prospect of having Harry touch his bare skin and the further loss to his much-maligned dignity.

"You can't even stand," Harry pointed out, the embarrassment now faded from his face. "Just let me help."

Draco remained silent for a moment, mulling over his options. But he really didn't have the energy to fight, and he _did_ feel disgusting, so eventually the urge to be clean won out. "Fine," he said, torn between excitement and mortification at the prospect.

Harry simply smiled at him and then set to work with a touch so gentle and skilful that Draco started to think he had missed his calling as a Healer or mediwizard or something like that. Really, anyone with a bedside manner this good was wasted in a joke shop.

Draco was about to point this out, but then Harry wrapped a white, fluffy towel around his shoulders and began to rub him dry oh-so-gently, and it pushed Draco's senses into overload. And by the time Harry had him buttoned back up in a clean pyjama top, and resting against pillows that now wore clean cases, Draco was practically purring in pleasure.

And that was when he realised how fucked he truly was.

***

After another couple of days under Harry's devoted care, Draco was feeling much better – almost human again. So much so that he could no longer deny it to himself, or to anyone else.

Hermione might have been sympathetic while he was in the grips of sickness, but she'd already been making noises about him returning to work. And as much as Draco was reluctant to quit the haven that his flat – and Harry – had become over the last few days, he knew he couldn't put it off any longer.

Things would only get more difficult with time, and if nothing else, Draco needed to see what kind of damage had been done.

He didn't have long to wait.

"You're ill again."

Draco dragged his gaze away from the goblin liaison report on his desk. If Hermione's words held accusation, her expression, at least, did not.

"What?" The question was in part an attempt to buy himself time, and also because he was only partially paying attention. The blurred figures moving around on the page in front of him were a little distracting.

Hermione seated herself opposite him at the desk. She leant forward and promptly removed the report from under Draco's nose.

"This should have been finished yesterday; you've barely started."

A tiny flurry of panic started inside Draco and it took every last ounce of energy he had to suppress his natural instinct to attack in return. However much relations between them had mellowed over the years, Hermione was still his boss, and there was only one way a confrontation of that nature would end. Besides, she was right. Draco knew it was a simple task, one he could have usually completed in his sleep, but it was hard to concentrate when the words kept moving around on the page.

"It's a little more in depth than we first thought," he replied stiffly. It was unlikely Hermione would buy it, but Draco hoped he could at least buy himself a little time.

"You look exhausted." Hermione placed the report back down on the desk and left the subject alone for the moment. She returned her piercing gaze back to Draco and he squirmed slightly under its intensity.

"I didn't sleep very well last night." _Or, at all_ Draco added silently. The truth of it was that since Harry had returned to his own room, Draco had slept very little at all, and what sleep he did get was usually as a result of sheer exhaustion. Not that he had any intention of telling Hermione that.

"Or any night before that, by the look of it."

"Did you just come in here to insult me?" Draco forced himself to maintain eye contact and ignore the throbbing at his temples. "Because I have work to get on with." He gestured vaguely in the direction of the discarded report.

Hermione was not to be so easily distracted. "Have you been to see a Healer?" she asked, ignoring Draco's last words. "It's been well over a week now; maybe it's something more than just flu?"

"I'm fine!" The words came out a little louder, a little harsher-sounding than Draco intended, but he was tired, his body ached, and he'd had a dull headache for the last twenty-four hours. All he wanted was to be left alone – in Draco's case, misery definitely did _not_ love company. "Now, if you don't mind…" He reached out and picked up his quill again and then looked pointedly at Hermione.

She, however, was not looking at him. Rather, she wasn't looking at his face. "You're shaking," she said, in much the same tone as she might have said _you're bleeding_ – the concern palpable.

Draco followed her gaze down to his hand – not that he had to look to know it was true. The trembling had been there on and off all morning, and was just another reason why he had barely touched that blasted report. "It's fine," he said, doing his best to sound dismissive. "They only had decaf in the canteen earlier, and you know how I like my coffee."

If it had been anyone else, Draco would probably have got away with it, but Hermione was never that easily misdirected. "Draco, you're not fine," she said, and the obvious concern and sympathy in her tone clawed at his skin. "I really think—"

"Will you just leave it?" Draco hadn't meant to shout, but he honestly didn't regret it either. It was bad enough that he felt like shit, that he had the worry of just what that meant to contend with, he couldn't handle her interference – however well-meant it was – on top of everything else. "I said I was fine; let that be an end to it."

As soon as the words were out of his mouth Draco's anger vanished, along with any last remaining vestiges of strength. He leant forward, placed his elbows on the table, cradled his head in his hands, and waited for the axe to fall.

Only it didn't. There was a moment's pointed silence where Draco could feel the weight of Hermione's gaze heavy on him, but before either of them was forced to speak and shatter it, there was a soft knock at the door.

Draco sat up instinctively, years of training as both a Malfoy and a Slytherin kicking in. It was bad enough that Hermione had witnessed his lapse – showing weakness to anyone else would be unthinkable.

"Sorry to interrupt." 

Somehow Draco's heart simultaneously clenched and sank at the sight of Harry's perpetually messy head peering round the door.

"Is everything okay?" A slight frown creased Harry's brow as he entered the room and gazed worriedly between his two friends. "You were… I heard shouting."

Hermione was the first to recover – naturally. She gave a light laugh and brushed a few stray curls back from her face. "Just a work disagreement, Harry. Nothing to worry about." She got to her feet then, and smoothed out her robes as she stood. "Now, to what do we owe this honour?"

"Huh?" Harry tore his attention away from Draco, who he'd been looking at in concern. "Oh, Draco forgot his lunch," he said, and held out a familiar-looking bag that Draco had last seen on the kitchen worktop that morning.

Something inside Draco arched in pleasure at this show of concern, but he suppressed it quickly, with a bitter reminder that he couldn't afford to indulge such feelings. "Thank you." Draco pushed back his chair and got to his feet. "But you really didn't have to."

"You didn't have breakfast this morning," Harry said, just the hint of accusation in his tone. "Didn't want you missing lunch as well."

"What are you, my mother?" Draco tried to keep his tone light and added a little laugh for good measure, but as he reached out to take hold of the bag, the look of concern still marred Harry's face.

"I'm just worried about you; you don't look well. I think maybe you came back to work too early."

Draco had to turn away from the look in Harry's eyes – it only encouraged thoughts that he was actively trying to dismiss. But then he was faced with Hermione's triumphant expression instead – she was clearly feeling vindicated by Harry's words – and there really wasn't a lesser of those two evils.

"Draco." 

Harry reached out and laid one hand gently on his shoulder. Draco might be able to turn away from his words, but his touch was another thing altogether. It was an entirely innocent form of contact, but it set the fire burning low in Draco's belly and his skin practically hummed in response. Draco could feel a sense of almost peace settling over him, and whilst it was a welcome release from his feelings of the last few days, it was too much.

Draco wanted nothing more than to curl into the touch, but he couldn't. He needed to be stronger; he could master this. "I'm fine," he said, for what felt like the thousandth time that day, and stepped away.

Harry's arm fell to his side and there was an awkward moment when nobody spoke – even Hermione remained silent, which was nothing short of a miracle as far as Draco was concerned.

"Okay. Well, I guess I'll let you get on with it then," Harry said finally. His voice was lower than usual, and the obvious look of hurt on his face was like a knife to Draco's chest. But it was a price he had to pay to hang on to what was left of his sanity. So he watched Harry leave, and resisted every temptation that was crying out for him to go after him, to apologise, to never let him go again.

When the door closed firmly behind Harry, Draco sighed quietly – then cursed himself when he remembered he was still not alone.

Hermione was watching him with a speculative gleam in her eyes. 

"What?" Draco might not have wanted to unleash his irritation on Harry, but Hermione would make a perfect substitute, the way he was feeling right now.

Hermione gave a slight shake of her head and wore what Draco knew she thought of as her mysterious smile. "Oh nothing," she said, though her tone clearly implied _everything_. "I always did wonder about you and Harry though."

"I have no idea what you're talking about." Draco made no effort to curb the shortness of his tone this time. He crossed the room back to his desk and reseated himself. "Now, if you don't mind, I have work to be getting on with." He picked up his quill and turned his attention, once more, to that blasted goblin report.


	2. Two

By the end of the week Draco was exhausted from the effort of maintaining his façade. Relations with Hermione were frosty at best – at least, on Draco's part. On hers, well, she had been watching Draco with a little too much interest for his liking. Not that he had called her on it. On this particular occasion Draco felt the old Hogwarts motto was more than appropriate – only Hermione was the dragon in the equation this time, not him.

Saturday was a blessed relief. Harry was helping George out in the shop, which not only gave Draco the flat to himself, but also meant a respite from the almost overwhelming concerns of his flatmate. Harry meant well, and under normal circumstances Draco would have flourished under such attention, but circumstances were not normal by any stretch of the imagination, and Draco felt a little like he was drowning.

With no one around for him to keep up a front for, Draco let it go. It was like his body knew this as well, and took the opportunity to shut down and recuperate for the week ahead. Draco felt more drained than he had during the whole of the working week, and he was sorely tempted to down a Dreamless Sleep Potion and spend the day in bed. But he was trying to carefully ration his use of that particular potion – he'd seen what overuse could do to people – and only took them at his actual bed time.

So instead, clad in his favourite pyjamas, Draco tugged the duvet from his bed and set up camp on the sofa, with only soppy movies and Muggle energy drinks for company. There were worse ways to spend the day, he mused, as the titles for Bridget Jones's Diary scrolled across the screen. Though wild horses wouldn't have dragged it from him, this was his favourite film by far, and if he identified a little too much with the heroine and her fear of dying alone and being eaten by Alsatians, well, no one needed to know, did they?

"They'll rot your teeth, you know."

Draco almost spat his drink out in surprise – he'd been so engrossed in the film and his own thoughts that he hadn't even heard the chime of the Floo. He pulled the duvet up till it was almost under his chin and stared defensively at his visitor.

"What are you doing here?"

If Hermione sensed her lack of welcome, she chose to ignore it. "I saw Harry at the shop earlier; he was worried about you. Thought I'd check in and put his mind at rest."

The brief flicker of something in Draco's belly at the thought of Harry's concern was soon banished by his irritation at Hermione's presence – it was bad enough he had to tolerate her interference at work. "Well, now you've seen me," he said, attempting to keep his tone as neutral as possible.

"You look awful."

"Thank you for the compliment." Draco aimed the remote at the TV and turned the volume up in a very pointed dismissal.

Again, Hermione ignored it. "I'm serious." She walked further into the room, and Draco's heart sank a little when he realised she had no intention of leaving any time soon. "You really do look terrible. Have you been to see a Healer?"

"There's no point." Draco kept his eyes on the screen and his temper under control – for now.

"Because there's nothing wrong with you?" Hermione asked coolly. "Or because there isn't a potion that can cure what's wrong with you?"

The breath caught in Draco's throat and the vague sense of nausea that had been plaguing him for days now returned with a vengeance. "What?" He was actually impressed at how steady his voice sounded, because inside he was terrified.

"I've been doing some research," Hermione said, and parked herself determinedly on the end of the sofa. 

Draco was forced to move his feet to accommodate her and was about to make a particularly snarky remark about the size of her arse when he saw the book she had clutched in her hands: _The Veela Enigma_. His vague fears increased tenfold now and he was fairly sure his heart was going to beat its way out of his chest at any moment. "Oh really?" he asked, playing it as casual as his sense of panic would allow.

"I was confused at first," Hermione continued – Draco recognised the familiar 'lecture' tone to her voice and realised with a sinking heart that there would be no stopping her now until she'd reached her point. "Because I checked your genealogy thoroughly, and you can't be more than an eighth Veela at most."

And there it was at last. The secret that Draco – and his parents – had struggled so desperately to conceal for the last four years, spoken so casually as if it hadn't torn his world apart. He remained silent though. Really, what could he say?

"By rights you shouldn't have any of the characteristics." Hermione looked at him then, almost as if chastising him for contradicting the facts. "But I read through this in great detail," she stroked the book in her hand almost tenderly, "and it all makes sense."

"What does?" Draco's voice came out as little more than a croak, and he knew he'd regret asking, but he just had to know. 

"Well, there's the juniper berries for one thing. It says in here that they can be quite toxic to Veela if ingested, and you told Harry that you were allergic to them." Hermione paused then. She looked at Draco with something like sympathy in her gaze. "And then there's this thing with you and Harry."

Draco looked away, he couldn't stand the pity in her gaze – it clawed its way under his skin like an insidious itch. "There is no me and Harry." And wasn't that the heart-breaking truth.

Fortunately Hermione seemed inclined to leave that topic alone for a moment. "I don't understand," she said, returning to her earlier remarks. "Fleur is a quarter Veela and she bears none of the characteristics. How is it that you do?"

Draco had one vain hope that if he gave her this, provided her with something to occupy her brain, that she would leave the subject of Harry alone. Forever. "It was Voldemort," he muttered, eyes cast down to where his fingers twisted with the blanket. On any other occasion Draco would have been proud of actually saying the name without wincing, but right now he had more pressing concerns.

"But how? I mean, was it a spell?"

Draco shook his head, causing his hair to fall forward and partly obscure his already downcast eyes. "He had Professor Snape make a potion. He had some idea of returning part Veela to their pure state. You've read the books; you know what vicious creatures pure Veela can be. Voldemort thought they would make the perfect fighting force – destructive, yet also with powers of seduction."

"So it's not just you then?" Hermione reached out and placed her hand tentatively over Draco's. "Are your parents…?"

Draco shook his head again. "No. It's only Father that the strain comes from, and he was considered too valuable to risk on an experiment. _I_ was considered more expendable."

"Oh, Draco."

Draco pulled his hand away – somehow the sympathy made the situation just that much worse. "It's fine. It could be worse, right?" He gave a short bitter laugh here. "I mean, at least I don't have a beak."

"I'll do some research," Hermione said. "There has to be a way of reversing it."

It was the one time in his life that Draco was disappointed to see her get something wrong. "There's no point," he admitted quietly. "We've tried, countless times. It can't be done."

There was a moment's silence then, and Draco knew it was because Hermione was struggling to take his words on faith alone. Finally, she shifted in her seat, moved a little closer.

"Then you have to tell Harry." Her voice was soft but undercut with determination that once again had Draco's heart sinking.

"No," he said immediately, and hoped his tone would convey to her just how much this was _not_ up for discussion.

"He has a right to know." Apparently not.

"I don't want him told," Draco spoke through gritted teeth. He looked at her now and employed one of his best Malfoy glares of old. "You don't say a word to him about this, Hermione, or I'll—"

"He's my best friend; I won't lie to him about something like this."

There was something in the calm way she spoke, like she wasn't threatening to pull Draco's world down around his ears, which caused the final thread holding his temper to snap. 

"You have no right," he yelled, and flung the remote control across the room to emphasise his point. 

Hermione looked from where the remote now lay in pieces on the floor back to Draco's flushed face. "I understand this must be difficult for you," she began.

"Understand?" Draco was faintly aware he was practically screeching now, but he honestly didn't care. "You don't understand anything, Granger. Just poking your nose into things that don’t concern you, like always. Maybe if you got a life of your own you wouldn't be so interested in interfering in everyone else's."

"I don't have to listen to this; I'm only trying to help you," Hermione replied stiffly as she rose to her feet.

"Then go!" Draco yelled. He pushed the duvet off his legs and got to his feet. "You weren't invited anyway."

"Not interrupting anything, am I?"

Draco had never been gladder to see Pansy in his entire life.

"I used the kitchen Floo," Pansy continued, walking into the room. She glanced pointedly at the shattered remote by the fireplace. "Which was a wise move, judging by the look of things." She paused then and looked from Draco's flushed face to Hermione's pinched one. "I think perhaps you'd better leave, Granger. You know Draco isn't well; the last thing he needs is upsetting right now."

Hermione opened her mouth to protest but no words came out. She stood for a moment in what looked like a staring contest with Pansy. Hermione might have been the smarter of the two, Draco mused, but she could never out-bitch a Slytherin.

"Fine," she huffed, and made her way to the fireplace. Draco felt a weight of tension leave his body as she scooped up a handful of Floo powder. It returned with a vengeance when she turned and fixed him with a determined glare. "Tell him, Draco," Hermione said firmly. "If you don't, I promise I will." 

And then she was gone in a flurry of green flames, and what little will power had been holding Draco upright throughout the confrontation vanished. He slumped to the sofa, head in hands.

"You want to tell me what that was all about?" Pansy asked as she seated herself next to Draco. "Or should I start guessing?"

Draco lifted his head from his hands and turned to look at her. The words he groped for wouldn't come – his brain was still reeling from the implications of Hermione's parting shot – and he ended up staring at her mutely.

Words weren't necessary at that moment it seemed, because whatever Pansy saw in his expression, in his eyes, it was enough for her to pull him close. Before he could protest it – not that he was so inclined – Draco found himself stretched out on the sofa, his head in Pansy's lap, while she petted him like one of her favoured Persians.

"Is it about Harry?" she asked with a gentleness that would have surprised anyone who didn't know her well.

For the life of him Draco couldn't remember what had possessed him to keep this secret from her – she was his best friend. They didn't lie to each other. Not any more, anyway. "How did you know?" he asked faintly.

"Darling, I have eyes. And you are nowhere near as sneaky as you think." She paused for a minute then, though her fingers kept up their motion on his hair. "Do you want to talk about it?"

There was a part of Draco screaming no, that the more people who knew the more risk there was of Harry finding out. But considering Hermione was one of those people who already knew, Draco figured that part was already well and truly taken care of.

And Pansy was his best friend. She had stuck by him when everyone else had turned their backs at the end of the war. For all that they squabbled and bickered and bitched occasionally, Pansy was the closest thing he had to family. And Draco was just tired of carrying this burden alone – especially now as it grew heavier day by day.

So he said "yes" very softly, and he lay there in her lap, fighting the tiredness that tugged at him, while he laid bare this darkest of secrets that he had fought to keep hidden for so long.

"Are you sure it's Potter?" Pansy asked when Draco paused to gather his thoughts. "I mean, there's always been an intensity between you two, but you're sure you're not mistaken?"

Draco reached up and took hold of Pansy's hand and squeezed gently. "It's definitely Harry," he said.

"Well, it could be worse, I suppose," Pansy said. "He is at least good looking, and rich. I know he's only a half-blood, but I don't think that—"

"Pansy, you're forgetting he's also very straight."

Pansy huffed dismissively. "That's what we used to think about Blaise; didn't stop him shagging Longbottom, did it?"

Draco groaned pitifully. "Pansy, please, we're trying to alleviate my misery here, not compound it."

"Sorry." But the amusement in her tone said otherwise. "So why haven't you been sick for years then?"

"What?" Draco craned his head round to look up at her.

"I just mean that if Potter's been your mate since the end of the war, why have you only started pining for him now?"

"I'm not pining."

"Draco, you can barely lift your head off my lap, and from what I hear you haven't eaten a proper meal in weeks. I think it's safe to say we're in pining territory."

Draco scowled briefly, but didn't have the energy to maintain his irritation. He rubbed at his eyes for a moment while he gathered his thoughts. "I think it's because it's not like a typical Veela/Mate thing. He wasn't predestined or anything like that, because I wasn't even supposed to _have_ a mate. It was that potion that changed things."

"So how come it's him then, of all people?" 

Draco shrugged one-shouldered. "I'm not really sure. It's like... he was really good to me when no one else cared. He defended me, saved me really, and it was all at the time when I was trying to come to terms with who I was. I had all these emotions running riot and I think I sort of imprinted on him, you know?"

"Not really," Pansy said honestly. "And that still doesn't explain why now?"

Draco sighed – she really wasn't going to let this go. "I think us being friends satisfied the need I had for him, especially after we moved in here."

"So what changed?" Pansy asked, and scratched her nails lightly over Draco's scalp as she spoke.

" _I_ did," Draco said bluntly. "Or rather, the Veela part of me did. When I was sick, he was amazing. He did everything for me and it was like we were…" Draco drifted off then, unwilling to put into words the end of that sentence. "Anyway, I think my Veela self got used to the increased level of intimacy and now what we had before just isn't enough."

Pansy remained silent for the next minute or two. Draco knew she was processing all that she'd learnt, but he really needed her to say something.

"I hate to say this, Draco, but I think Granger is right. You have to tell Potter about this."

Draco's heart sank. Of all people, he'd expected Pansy to be on his side. "I can't," he said, and pressed one hand to his temple to alleviate the throbbing within. "You know what he's like; he'd do it because he felt obliged. Even though it's not what he wants."

"You don't know that he doesn't though," Pansy pointed out stubbornly.

"What part of 'he's straight' don't you understand?" Draco asked irritably.

"Are you really sure about that? I mean, when was the last time he had a girlfriend?"

"Pansy, please." Draco's voice broke a little on the words. He knew she meant well, but giving him hope, however faint, wasn't doing him any favours. "Just let it go. It's not like I'm going to die or anything."

"No, you'll just be weak and miserable for the rest of your life," Pansy said, her tone laced with bitterness. "That's so much better."

Draco used the last of his energy reserves to reach up and grab hold of Pansy's hand again. His fingers tightened round her wrist as he spoke. "Promise me you won't say anything."

Pansy huffed then. "I wouldn't, Draco, you know that. And don't worry about Granger either. You leave her to me."

***

By the following Friday Draco wasn't sure how much longer he could keep going on the way he was. Hermione had been a particularly difficult cross for him to bear. Because although she had remained silent on the issue – whatever Pansy had said to her seemed to be holding firm – the tension between them was unbearable. Her moods alternated somewhere between anger and pity where Draco was concerned, and it was making his head spin trying to keep up – as if it wasn't doing a good enough job of it by itself.

All of which was no help at all when he was fighting aches and pains and fatigue just to make it through each day.

Draco now had serious doubts about just how liveable this _condition_ of his was. It certainly wouldn't kill him – at least, not directly – but he couldn't help wondering if the symptoms wouldn't just wear him into the ground eventually.

Because his _sickness_ was more than apparent – the greyish tinge to his skin was unmissable – Harry had maintained his previous level of coddling. Which was something of a double-edged sword for Draco. It had the advantage of bringing him close to Harry, which in turn eased his symptoms temporarily. But Draco couldn't quite relax and enjoy it because of the very real fear that he was just making the problem worse.

More often than not, common sense was swiftly overruled by Draco's Veela genes.

So it was with much relief that he Flooed home that Friday. Later than usual, because Hermione had sloped off early and left him with her work to finish, but not too late for his planned evening of takeaway and a film, just him and Harry.

He emerged from the kitchen Floo and took a moment to gather himself before anything else. Draco wasn't blind: he could see the obvious concern for his health in Harry's eyes when he looked at him, and as much as a part of Draco melted a little each time, he also couldn't quash the guilt he felt at the same time.

Draco shrugged off his work robes and draped them carefully over the back of the nearest chair.

"Harry!" he called, unbuttoning his cuffs and slowly rolling back his sleeves. "Sorry I'm late. That friend of yours was being a slave driver again. I swear, I'd be better off as a house-elf sometimes." Draco walked as he talked and made his way into the living room. He stopped in his tracks at what he saw.

It wasn't unusual to find Harry on the sofa on a Friday evening, but the deeply troubled expression he wore was most definitely new.

"Are you okay?" Draco could feel his chest tighten in panic as he spoke. "Did something happen?"

Harry turned to face him now – he looked worse than Draco felt. He stared in silence for what seemed like an unbearable length of time before he finally opened his mouth. "Hermione came to see me this afternoon."

He didn't say anything more, and really he didn't need to. Draco didn't reply. He was too busy trying to control his breath, which threatened to rush in and out of his chest at an alarming speed. 

When no reply was forthcoming, Harry turned away and got to his feet. Draco watched in dumb fear as he crossed the room and stood facing the fireplace, one hand gripping the mantle. "Why didn't you tell me?" he asked, his voice audibly hoarse.

Draco could hear the emotion in his voice, but unable to see Harry's face he couldn't identify it. "There was nothing to tell," he said quietly.

"Don't lie!"

Draco wasn't sure if it was Harry's shout or the ornament he swept off the mantelpiece that made him jump, but the fear coursing through him now was very real. Draco made the short distance to the sofa on trembling limbs. He sank down into the nearest seat and buried his head in his hands.

"There was no point."

"No point?" Harry demanded incredulously. "Draco, it's making you ill."

Draco couldn't deny what was so obviously true, so instead he said, "I didn't want you with me out of pity."

There was a long pause then, filled only with the sound of Draco's laboured breaths. Just as Draco reached the point where he felt like screaming just to shatter the silence, Harry spoke again. His voice was low and rough and Draco really wished he hadn't heard him, but there was no denying it.

"But you _do_ want me?"

_Fuck_! How the hell was he supposed to answer that? A part of Draco was urging him loudly to take the coward's way out, to grab his wand and concentrate and apparate himself anywhere but there. But whilst he couldn't bear to be around Harry right now, Draco also knew that he couldn't possibly stand to be apart.

"Draco?" There was an edge of impatience to Harry's tone.

"Yes!" If there was one thing Draco hated it was being cornered, even if it was Harry, so he made no effort to hide the anger in his voice. "I want you. Are you happy now?"

Draco had imagined this confession a thousand different ways in his head but he still had no idea how Harry would react, so he held his breath, tried his hardest not to let the trembling in his hands show, and he waited.

It seemed Harry wasn't entirely sure how to react either. Because he stared at Draco in silence – his mouth opened, jaw working, but no words ever made it out. It stretched on and on and Draco wasn’t sure how much longer his nerves could stand it. If only Harry would do something – shout, yell, cry; anything.

Then Harry gave himself a small shake as if to clear his head. He crossed the room and picked up a holdall off the floor at the side of the sofa. 

Draco hadn't noticed it before, but now it was all he could see. "You're leaving?" he asked, and a part of him hated how small, how scared his voice came across.

"I just need to get away." Harry couldn’t quite meet Draco's gaze as he shouldered the bag. "I need to think, and I can't do that around here, around you."

"Harry, please!" Draco had to sit on his hands to stop himself reaching out. "This doesn’t have to change anything."

The laugh that followed was harsh and bitter. "It changes _everything_." Harry turned then and walked to the fireplace. "I can't be here right now," he added as his fingers curled in the dish of Floo powder.

"Harry!" But it came too late. The flames crackled green and he was gone, leaving Draco alone with only his misery for company.

***

If Draco had thought he felt bad before, it was nothing to how he felt from the moment Harry left the flat. It was like someone had cut the strings holding him together.

When his _condition_ had originally been discovered, Draco had read all the books on Veela that he could get his hands on. He knew vividly how full-blooded creatures would die if their pre-ordained mate rejected them. And even though, logically, Draco knew that wouldn't happen to him, there were moments when it felt like it would. There was even the occasional one where he wished it so.

From the moment the flames flared green in Harry's wake, a sense of hopelessness descended on Draco. Everything was too much effort and the thought of facing the world unbearable.

So he took the only course of action that was remotely appealing – firewhisky was ruled out on account of Blaise's last birthday party – and with only a vial of Dreamless Sleep for company, he took to his bed.

And there Draco remained.

The potion dulled his senses through Friday night and into Saturday morning. But even when its blissful release wore off, Draco stayed abed. However, despite the snug duvet and countless pillows, he just couldn't seem to shake the chill that had settled in his bones.

With a complete absence of appetite, Draco only left his room for urgent calls of nature. And on each of those he carefully avoided the bathroom mirror – he didn't need to see his lifeless hair and skin and eyes to know that it was so. The never-ending ache in his heart confirmed it.

A sharp tapping noise woke him from a nap mid-afternoon. Draco sat up with alacrity, every cell of his being crying out for it to be Harry returning. But once the dizzy spell had passed, Draco was forced to accept that it was just Pansy's owl pecking at his window persistently. Full of disappointment, and no small amount of irrational anger, Draco fired a quick hex at the glass.

Pansy's owl shot him a baleful glare and then took to the skies with an indignant screech.

Draco had no doubts it would be back, and probably carrying something red and smoking when it did. But for now he couldn't muster the energy to care. Because Harry was still gone and Draco felt miserable and nothing else really mattered.

The sky was already dark outside his window the next time Draco was dragged from his sleep. But unless owls had mastered the art of hammering on doors – and with a creature of Pansy's you could never quite be sure – he had a different visitor altogether.

Initially Draco did no more than tug a pillow over his head and will the disturbance away. 

It didn't work.

If anything, the banging increased in volume.

The last thing Draco wanted to do was face what or _who_ ever was on the other side of his front door, but the neighbours were still sore from the time that Harry and assorted Gryffindor types had treated them to every Quidditch song known to man at full volume in the early hours of a Sunday morning. And frankly Draco's life was sufficiently shit already, without a visit from the _frightfully-proper_ Mrs Walsh in 12b.

So, reluctantly, he quit his hibernation and made his way slowly through the flat, wincing as the noise grew louder the closer he got.

"What?" he snapped, and somehow mustered the energy for his best Malfoy glare as he yanked the door open. Then immediately regretted it as Pansy all but fell inside.

"Finally," she said, smoothing down her ruffled hair. "I was beginning to think a _Reducto_ was in order."

Draco ignored that remark and the follow-up threat that danced on the tip of his tongue. "Why are you knocking on my front door?" he asked instead.

"Had to get your attention somehow, didn't I? Since you sent Hercules back – and in an incredibly bad mood, might I add."

"I didn't think you even knew we… _I_ had a front door."

Judging from the momentary shift in Pansy's expression, his slip did not go unnoticed, but for once she refrained from commenting. "It was either this or getting a kickback from your blocked Floo. And you know how I hate that."

Draco didn't bother to point out he hadn't actually locked his fireplace down. Which, considering the persistence of his friends, had been an incredibly stupid omission.

"It still doesn't explain what you're doing here at," he paused and glanced at the hall clock to the side, "nine thirty on a Saturday night. Aren't you usually out ensnaring some poor unfortunate by now?"

Pansy was not to be distracted by his barbs. She was, however, sufficiently distracted by his outfit. "What _are_ you wearing?" she asked, her gaze travelling the length of his body in disgust.

The answer, which was _Harry's dressing gown_ , was patently obvious. It was Gryffindor red and gold and practically threadbare. Draco had teased Harry mercilessly over the years about it, but he had stubbornly refused to get a new one. On any other day Draco would have happily _Incendioed_ it, but right now it smelt like Harry and that was more than enough to stay its execution.

"What do you want, Pansy?" Draco could hear the tiredness he felt reflected in his voice.

Pansy watched him carefully for a moment, almost as if he were some wild animal likely to bolt. "I know," she said simply.

The part of Draco that was relieved that at least now he wouldn't have to explain was drowned out by the very vocal part that definitely did _not_ want to talk about it.

"It's fine," he said, and then at the sight of Pansy's clearly sceptical tone, added, "Okay, so it's not. But it will be. It has to be."

"What did Harry say? Because Granger said she thought he—"

"Harry's gone. And no, I don't want to talk about it."

"But Draco—"

"Pansy, please." Draco could feel his little remaining energy draining from his body and held onto the door for support. "It's only been a few hours. At least give me the weekend to lick my wounds in private. After that, I promise you can question to your heart's content." Not that Draco had any intention of answering those questions, but he just wanted her to leave and was willing to promise anything in order to achieve that.

Pansy just looked at him silently for a moment. There was a brief flash of pity in her expression which caused Draco to bristle. But as he opened his mouth to snap, Pansy beat him to it.

"Fine," she said, though it was clear from her tone that it was anything but. "But don't think I will let this go. You have till Monday to wallow. But I _will_ be back, and I _will_ expect answers."

To say Draco was a little surprised at how easily Pansy had given in would be an understatement. He tried not to think about what that said about his appearance and general condition. Instead, he headed back to bed, pausing only to grab another Dreamless Sleep on the way.

A couple of minutes and one empty vial later, blessed darkness overtook him.

The first thing Draco thought when he next woke up was that he really should have paid attention to Pansy and locked his Floo, because there was only one thing he wanted less than company right then, and that was for that company to come in the form of one Hermione Granger.

There weren't words to describe the way he felt towards her right now – the anger, the sense of betrayal – and he had rather hoped to put off this meeting until his rage has subsided to a level less likely to get him the sack.

But, as usual, Hermione had never been one to let things progress at their own pace.

"Where's Harry?" she asked without preamble.

Just the sound of his name was enough to make Draco feel like his skin was being pricked by thousands of tiny pins. 

"He's not here," Draco said through gritted teeth. "And I'd really prefer it if you weren't either." Despite his anger, the fight had gone out of Draco and he could barely muster the urge to glare.

Hermione folded her arms across her chest. "I can see that for myself. But he was supposed to be at the Burrow for lunch, and his bed hasn't been slept in, and I haven't heard from him since… Friday."

She at least had the good grace to look a little sheepish at these last words, but it was no balm for Draco's wounds.

"He's gone," Draco said, and was pleased to hear that his tone was surprisingly neutral. "Thanks to you and your little conversation, he packed a bag on Friday and hasn't been back since."

Normally Draco loved nothing more than seeing Hermione surprised, but this time it gave him no satisfaction.

"He left?" The mixture of surprise and confusion was evident on her face. "But I thought—"

"Well you thought wrong, didn't you? He left and now I don’t even have him as a friend, so _thanks_ , Granger. Thanks a fucking lot. Now if you don't mind I'd like to be alone." Draco rolled over in bed so he was facing the wall and could avoid the pity in her eyes he knew he would find. He would have to face her soon enough at work; for now he just wanted the world to go away.

There was a quiet _snick_ as the door closed behind her and Draco let out a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding.

Draco dozed then for the remainder of the afternoon and long into the night. But his rest was disturbed – there was far too much on his mind for it to ever be peaceful.

He woke this time, startled by a dream. The memory of it was dim, blurred by sleep, but the sweat on his brow and the way he was clutching the sheets, white-knuckled, were clear indications it was not pleasant. 

He groped blindly for the vial of Dreamless Sleep that he'd had the foresight to leave at his bedside. Biting the stopper and spitting it God only knew where, Draco emptied the contents without a second thought. Then he sank back down into the bed with a soft sigh and waited.

But before sleep had the chance to embrace him, someone else did. Draco sucked in a deep, panicked breath as he realised he wasn't alone. 

There was someone in his bed. And their arm was around Draco's waist. 

But before the panic had time to settle into a full-blown attack, there were lips so close to Draco's ear that he could feel the heat of breath on his skin.

"Shhh. Just relax."

Despite the tumult of emotions he was experiencing just then, Draco wanted to laugh out loud. Because how the fuck was he supposed to relax when Harry was in his bed, holding him, pressed up against his back as if they were one?

Draco wanted to turn around, to demand answers, ask questions… there was just so much he needed to say. But the potion was starting to do its job and his vision was starting to dim.

"Just get some sleep," Harry said as his fingers skated lightly over the skin of Draco's stomach. "We'll talk in the morning; I promise."

There was so little of Draco's mind left in the waking world that he didn't reply. He just let himself relax back into Harry's embrace – warm and content, for now.

***

Draco drifted back to consciousness the following morning, some disturbance in the flat tugging him from the sweetest of dreams. And as the noise – yelling, he now identified it as – only seemed to increase in volume, Draco was forced to acknowledge that his dreams were a thing of the past. For now, at least.

There was no mistaking Pansy's voice, nor was there any mistaking her anger. She got increasingly louder with each hurled invective, and once again Draco cursed himself for not locking the damn Floo. When would he learn?

It was the sound of something breaking that raised Draco from his pit. He was still trying to work out a way to explain to his mother what had happened to the family antique Harry had smashed a few days earlier – _Reparo_ never quite cut the mustard with things that delicate – and there were far too many breakables in the lounge to leave Pansy's ire unattended for long.

So Draco got up.

His legs were still a little weak, though mainly from lack of use, he suspected. The aching was still present, and a rush of blood to the head had his world spinning for just a moment, but he definitely felt better.

A flicker of hope that this might not be as unbearable as first thought flourished within Draco. Then a movement in the bed behind him showed Draco that his dreams hadn't been dreams after all. Harry was back. And more than that, he was in Draco's bed. And if fuzzy-edged memories were to be believed, he had held Draco whilst he slept.

If Draco had thought his legs were weak before, it was nothing to how they felt now. He was actually trembling.

Harry slept on like a baby, burrowed under Draco's covers, completely oblivious to the start of World War Three in their living room.

Draco didn't know what to think. In fact, he really couldn't think right at that moment. His heart and mind were too full of Harry for there to be room for anything else. He needed space, some time to sort out how he felt about this. He needed to get rid of the two banshees who, for some unfathomable reason, were having their screeching practice in his flat. Because if they woke Harry up, then Draco would have to deal with him before he was ready. And this was too important to mess up.

So he made his way quietly out of the bedroom, ignoring the way his hand still trembled as he pulled the door closed, and made his way to the living room. He hovered in the doorway for a moment and took in the scene.

"I don't know why you're here anyway," Hermione said, hands firmly on hips.

"Because I don't trust you not to screw things up and make them worse again," Pansy bit back, and Draco was relieved to see that for now, at least, her wand was safely stowed away.

"I've told you, it'll be fine. I spoke to Harry last night, and I just want to make sure—"

"And I told you to stay out of it," Pansy raged. "But would you listen? Oh no, because you know better than everyone else. Except you don't, and now Draco's sick, and it's all your bloody fault."

Draco's heart swelled at the obvious concern in Pansy's voice, but he was just too tired to deal with this sort of drama right now.

"I was just trying to help," Hermione said just as Draco entered the room, and he couldn't remember ever hearing her sound quite so meek before.

Pansy did not look suitably impressed by it. She opened her mouth but, rather than endure another colourful tirade, Draco cleared his throat.

That stopped them both in their tracks.

"Draco, you're up." The tentativeness was unmistakeable in Hermione's tone – not unsurprising, Draco thought, considering how they had last parted company.

Pansy had no such considerations. "Is he here?" she demanded in a tone that implied she would very much like to find Harry and kick his arse.

Draco was really too tired for this. He might have felt a little better a short while ago, but it seemed the longer and the further away from Harry he was, the more he regressed. Already there was a persistent ache behind his eyes.

"Yes." He nodded and then made a mental note not to do it again. At least, not for a while anyway.

"Hiding, is he?" Pansy said, tone laced with scorn. "He'll wish he had when I'm done with him." She slid her wand down her sleeve.

"He's sleeping," Draco said quietly. "And I'd like it to stay that way if you don't mind." Hermione shot Pansy a triumphant look. "Both of you," Draco added.

"Sleeping?" Pansy's brow creased just a little and her eyes narrowed. "Draco, what's going on?"

"Pansy, can you just go? Both of you, please? I need to talk to him and I can't very well do that with you two squabbling in here."

Amazingly they both looked suitably chastised, and without further protest, and only a murmured apology from each, Hermione and Pansy headed into the Floo one after the other.

Just as Hermione's wild curls disappeared in the flames, Draco's attention was caught by the soft sound of padding footsteps behind him. He turned slowly so as not to aggravate his protesting head, and found himself facing a very bed-mussed Harry.

"Should you be out of bed? Hermione said you've been sick again." Harry's voice was uncertain and the way he rubbed at the back of his neck told Draco just how awkward he was feeling.

"Do you care?" It was sharp and cutting and even though he felt instantly guilty, Draco couldn't help but feel a little bit better.

"Shit, Draco!" Harry raked both hands through his hair in obvious agitation. "Of course I care."

"You could have fooled me." Draco turned his back on Harry – it hurt too much to look. "Or was that someone else who walked out of here on Friday night instead of discussing things like adults?"

"That's not fair." Harry sounded a little hurt, but Draco tried his hardest not to be affected – he needed to protect himself. "You didn't tell me either."

There was no real accusation in Harry's tone, but Draco was stung by it all the same. He turned round and glared, and a small part of him was pleased to see Harry's expression falter. "I didn't tell you something highly personal, and, might I add, embarrassing, because I wanted to protect you. And our friendship. _You_ ," Draco took a shaky breath and tried to steady himself, "you just left." He left off the _me_ from the end of the sentence, but it really went without saying for both of them.

"I'm sorry." Harry edged closer to Draco, a look of genuine contrition on his face. "I didn't mean…" He stopped and rubbed at his face wearily. "Hermione helped me see some things last night, and I want to explain—"

"But?" Harry didn't have to say the word for Draco to hear it. There was obviously something still holding him back.

"It's not like that." Harry shook his head slightly. "It's just, I think we should get you back into bed first."

There was an earnestness to Harry's tone that helped soothe the worst of Draco's wounds, but he couldn't help but raise an eyebrow at his choice of words. The answering blush on Harry's cheeks would have been cause for amusement had Draco not still been clinging to a fragile hope by his fingertips.

"Not like that." Harry gave a tentative smile but it quickly faded into an expression of concern. "You look like you're about to collapse any minute."

Draco didn't feel quite that bad, but he couldn't deny that his legs were still a little shaky and he was _so_ tired. A yawn chose that moment to crack his jaw.

"You're tired," Harry said, the observation somewhat redundant.

"I just need to sit down for a minute." Draco suited his actions to his words and perched on the edge of the sofa.

The way Harry's brows were drawn together was proof enough that he didn't agree. "You should be in bed," he said stubbornly.

"I'm fine." Draco had used that expression so many times over the last couple of weeks it was likely to end up as his epitaph. And what's more, it was a lie. He pulled one of the sofa's cushions to his chest and hugged it there, as if to erect a protective barrier between himself and any potential hurt that Harry could inflict again.

Harry took the couple of steps to Draco's side and placed one hand on his shoulder. "Draco," he began, but then stopped as an obvious shiver ran through Draco. "You're cold," he said instead. 

Draco didn't bother to point out that it wasn't so much the temperature as it was Harry's touch that had caused the reaction. Things were still uncertain between them and he didn't want to rock the proverbial boat any more. 

Not that he had the chance to anyway, because no sooner had Harry finished speaking than he left the room, leaving Draco behind on the sofa staring at the doorway and feeling more than a little confused.

Harry was still in the flat. The clattering noises and muffled swearing coming from down the hallway told Draco that much, at least. So he waited. Harry had many faults, but he never lied, and if he said he was sorry for running out before then he meant it, so Draco was confident that he wouldn't do it again.

And Draco's confidence was rewarded moments later when Harry re-entered the room with several pillows and Draco's duvet bundled in his arm.

"What are you—?"

Draco didn't get the chance to finish the sentence. Because, with obvious carefulness, Harry manhandled him into lying down on the sofa and then began smoothing the duvet over his body.

"There." Harry stood back with an expression of satisfaction on his face. "Are you comfy enough? I could get you more pillows?"

Draco smiled. He couldn't help it. He felt practically giddy at the obvious expression of Harry's concern. "This is perfect. Thank you."

"How do you feel?" Harry's brow creased again. "Hermione told me how sick you were." Harry knelt down at the side of the sofa and rested one hand on the duvet a hair's breadth from Draco's. "I would never…" He tailed off and shook his head. "If I'd known it would do that, I wouldn't have left. You have to believe me."

Draco nodded weakly. He did believe Harry. He had known him too long, experienced too much of his goodness to ever think anything else, but he just couldn't take this suspense any longer. He _had_ to know what was going on in Harry's head; there was no way they could just pretend the whole thing hadn't happened.

"Harry, please." Draco didn't say any more. To be honest, he didn't know exactly what he was asking, just that he needed answers.

It seemed Harry understood partly at least. He moved his hand the remaining distance and took hold of Draco's gently. "Why didn't you tell me?" he asked softly.

In that moment Draco wanted nothing more than to bury his head under the mound of pillows, but there was something in the intensity of Harry's gaze that wouldn't let him look away. "I couldn't," he admitted slowly. "It wouldn't have been fair to you to ask for what you can't give. You've already had to make too many sacrifices."

Harry remained silent for a moment, his gaze locked on Draco, and his free hand carefully brushing wayward strands of blond hair from Draco's face. "Who says I can't?" he asked finally, his voice a little rough and full of some emotion that Draco didn’t dare try to analyse.

Draco felt for a moment like someone had reached into his chest and stopped his heart. "Can you?" he asked and then tensed every inch of his body as he waited for an answer that would determine the rest of his life.

"I want to try." Harry slid his hand down from Draco's hair and stroked slowly over his cheek. "So much."

"But you can't. It's not—"

"Shhh." Harry laid one finger over Draco's lips, stilling their movement. "I _want_ to. I've thought about nothing else for the last two days; I know what I'm doing."

Then he leant in, pressed their lips together in a gentle kiss that promised so much more, and Draco could have cried with happiness and relief and contentment, because Harry was _kissing_ him, and it was so much more than he'd ever dared to hope for.

Harry pulled back after a moment and Draco saw a flicker of uncertainty cross his face. "Is this okay?" he asked, and Draco laughed, because it was so much more than okay.

Harry let out a sigh of relief and smiled a smile that warmed Draco's soul. "Good," he said, before dipping back in and pecking another kiss to Draco's lips that was entirely too short.

Draco didn't even care that he whined in protest when Harry pulled away.

Neither did Harry, it seemed. He smiled at Draco indulgently and brushed his thumb slowly over Draco's lips. "Now, budge up," he said.

And before Draco had time to process what he meant, Harry was nestling down behind him on the sofa, and Draco found himself very much the little spoon in the arrangement.

Draco knew there were things they had to discuss, important points to be made and cleared up, but then Harry's lips brushed against the back of his neck, and Draco found he was too damn happy right at that moment to care.

The End

**Additional Author's Notes:** Credit where credit is due to Jennavere from whom I took inspiration for the potion behind Draco's condition. The title of Hermione's book is a blatant shout out to her wonderful fic [The Veela Enigma](http://archive.skyehawke.com/story.php?no=7142). 


End file.
